Moving On
by Twisted Ink Incorporated
Summary: Dave didn't know what was worse, life without Bro or the fact he still couldn't come to terms with the fact his brother was truly gone. Or maybe it was the fact all his friends seemed to notice something was wrong as well. John sure noticed, and it killed Dave to think his cool kid facade was ruined. Sadstuck, sort of Bro/Dave shippy Spoilers in case anyone hasn't read very far.


****DISCLAIMER** I own none of the characters portrayed here, Homestuck and all its characters belong to Andrew Hussie, as much as I wish I owned these lovely characters I do not. **

**A/N: Why did I even write this? What is wrong with me? Why do I like Sadstuck so much? Why am I a terrible person? Yeah, this is still sorta in the works, lots of silly errors and such. But all well! \o/ Dave/Bro feels. Not really shippy, but sorta is in my mind. Whatever. *wonk***

Sometimes late at night you try to pretend you don't miss having him across the room. You close your eyes and try to drift to sleep lying to yourself that he won't be the one person who haunts your dreams every night. But you can't. You can't lie to yourself, can't keep up your cool kid façade, and you always break, every night, every time. You set your shades aside, and salty tears are pouring over your cheeks all the while you keep telling yourself it'll be okay, that things will get better and that the feeling of hopelessness will go away, that the fear that builds inside your chest will go away, but it never does. All you can think about is how nothing will ever be the same. No more shitty swords in stupid places, no more god damned puppets peeking out from odd corners, like he never even existed.

You can't even bring yourself to open the door to his room, you like to pretend he's still there, sitting in there doing what Bro always did, if you opened the door the whole illusion would crumble in your hands and blow away effortlessly with the wind. Some nights you sit outside his door, knees pulled up to your chest and you close your eyes real tight and try to remember the way he looked, the way he talked, the way he always said your name, that kind of way that held so much authority, so much audacity, something that used to scare you and then deep within that sound there was so much love and care, the way only your brother could pull off.

It breaks your poor Strider heart when you sit alone on the sofa mindlessly playing video games and you hear a knock at the door, all you can think to do is sprint to the door and you answer it, you're almost eager, you open the door with such hope and yet it's just the package you ordered last week, or the neighbors asking if they can borrow something, it's never Bro. It's never him standing there with open arms ready to tell you it was all for the sake of irony, it never is.

You've run the scenarios a million times in your head: Bro comes home late one night and surprises you, he tells you that it was all just some kind of sick joke, that he was sorry it hurt you so bad, and you all just laugh it off and share a hug and then everything goes back to normal, the way you want it so badly to be. Or maybe you wake up in your bed and rush into his room and there he is sleeping, sunglasses set on his desk along with his hat and it had all just been a terrible, terrible nightmare, but somewhere buried deep you know how cruelly real this all is, how much of a reality it is that Bro is dead and gone.

You hate using the word dead. You hate the way it stings in your cheeks, the way they heat up whenever you think about it and suddenly you're forced to leave your friends and return to the shelter of your home, the one place you can drop the act, the one place you can cry beneath the shelter of knowing that no one can see you. Knowing that John can't hear you weeping, Rose can't see you breaking, Jade can't see the way you destroy shit and throw things around for hours at a time because you can't think of anything else to do to quell the emptiness that's suddenly filled you.

Then finally one day you open his door. Everything is the way it was before, puppets scattered about, pictures of you and Bro on the walls, closet door ajar from where he'd gotten dressed, bed unmade. You can't help but cry, and you cry and cry, you can't even step through the doorframe; you just fall to your knees and hold your head in your hands, the illusion of his existence shattered.

You get to shaky feet, take tedious steps forward as though it would all fade away if you got too close. Then you just throw yourself on his bed and smother your face in his sheets and you're crying yet again, the scratchy material against your face, the scent of your long lost brother filling your nose and suddenly you can remember. You can remember what it felt like when you were scared and his hand would curl around yours, and your fingers flex in remembrance to the feel of those leather gloves, the feel of his calloused fingers curled around yours. You can remember the rare occasions when he would lean forward and plant a light kiss to your forehead and how your only response would be to yell at him for being lame, and yet deep down you treasured it so much, so much more than you let him know.

Now you wonder why you never told him, never told him all of the things that were always on your mind. Was it because it would ruin your façade? Because you wouldn't be cool? It was just a few words, a few cliché words that you knew were used way too often to even be considered ironic. But you so badly wanted to tell him now, just to look up at him and give a rare genuine smile and say "I love you, Bro." But the words were taken from your lips before they could leave, before they could reach his ears, and you're sure he would merely smile and pat you on the head, or maybe he would say he loved you too, you'd never get to know now, and you hate yourself for it.

You open shaky lips and your voice comes as a choked whine. "I miss you so much." You say into the comforter, hiccupping and sniffling, and you're nearly positive you look like an idiot, but you don't care, you just keep talking, wanting Bro to hear every word and yet doubt is on your tail and your hopelessness sets in and you just _know_ he can't. "I'm so sorry. Maybe if I had just- gotten there a little sooner or- or maybe if… maybe if I never got involved in that stupid game… or… I'm so sorry, Bro…" You can hardly make out your own words, they're so choked with tears. "I just want you to know…" You sputter, "that I'll always love you."

And then you hear a stir, behind you and you gasp a bit and your eyes turn to the doorframe and there's Egbert, looking at you with a sorrowful scowl. You want to explode, you want to kill him, you want to jump up and scream at him to get out, but you keep quiet, you just stare at him a long moment, and you think you can make out his blue eyes glazed over with tears.

You sit up and attempt to wipe away the tears and write it off, you open your mouth to say something to him but you can't get any words out before John has you in a tight embrace, his arms curled around you in a warm hug and you just lose it. You lean against him and set your head in the crook of his neck and you're balling, tears are flowing so much more now than ever and your only thoughts are spiraling around a single question. Somewhere at the back of your mind you wonder, _is this how Bro used to hug me? _You can barely remember, and for a moment as you melt into John's arms you can vaguely imagine him as your brother, and for just a moment everything is okay, just for a moment you're safe and everything is perfect.

But then John pulls away and he looks at you, and the delusion is devastated, he's just your friend, _just_ your friend. He could never be your brother, he could never remind you of your brother, and all you can manage to do is stare at him and let out weak, broken words. "I can't do this anymore, John." And your façade is ruined, your cool kid persona is nothing but dilapidated ruins that used to be whole. And John is staring at you like you're crazy, like there's something wrong with you, and hell maybe there is, maybe they all knew you were broken inside, maybe your façade never was, maybe everyone could see straight through you.

"Let's go and get something to eat." He says so simply, so off topic, and he's weakly smiling at you and you fucking hate him right then, you hate him for being so happy, he lost his dad, you both knew that, so why wasn't he as broken as you? Granted it had been 3 years since his passing, but why didn't he feel the same as you? "It'll just be Rose, Jade, you and me. We miss you, Dave." He says, and you can't pull yourself to break eye contact the way you want to.

"O- okay." You say, nodding slowly, sucking in a sharp breath and sighing deeply. "Okay." You repeat again, and you sigh once more. Somewhere in a place you'd forgotten existed, a little voice told you everything would be alright, saying you could do it, and maybe you were crazy, but that little voice sounded a lot like Bro.

Moving on was hard.

Moving on _is_ hard.


End file.
